by J. A. Jance
“Thank you,” Joanna said.
The intercom setup was at the far end of the counter. As Wanda Hayes hurried off down the corridor, the other woman did as she was told. “Ms. Ruiz,” she said into the microphone. “Please report to the office.”
Inside the office designated as Wanda Hayes’s private domain, Joanna had a choice to make. She could either sit in the chair behind the desk and take command of the situation or she could be a caring human being and use one of the two visitor chairs. She chose the latter. When an anxious and breathless Amy Ruiz hurried through the doorway a few minutes later, she came to a sudden halt the moment she spotted Joanna’s uniform.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, “not Armando!”
For a moment Joanna Brady was unable to utter a word. All she could do was nod.
Her face white with shock, Amy staggered to the other chair and dropped heavily into it. “Is he . . . ?”
“No,” Joanna managed at last. “He’s not dead, but he’s been grievously wounded—shot while attempting to deliver a no-contact order. He’s being airlifted to Banner in Tucson, where he’ll probably need to undergo surgery. If you’re not comfortable driving there on your own, I’ll be glad to take you myself, or else I can have one of my deputies drive you there.”
Unfortunately, Joanna knew exactly how this felt—the disorienting shock of having your life turned upside down, of losing that which you held most dear. From the stricken look on Amy’s face to the lack of comprehension in her eyes, Joanna wasn’t sure how many of her words had actually penetrated.
“No,” Amy said at last, as if shaking herself awake. “I should probably drive myself. That way I’ll have a vehicle to use.”
“What about your kids?” Joanna asked. “It’s probably for the best if they don’t go with you at this point. Do you have someone who can pick them up from school and look after them?”
Amy stared at Joanna numbly for several long seconds before she finally nodded. “My folks,” she said. “I’ll call Mom. She’ll pick them up and take them home to their place. But what happened, Sheriff Brady? Tell me.”
“As I said, Armando was sent out early this morning to deliver a no-contact order to a man living in Whetstone. We still don’t have all the details. Officers and EMTs from Huachuca City were the first to arrive on the scene, and they’re the ones who requested an air ambulance. One of my own deputies is still on his way, although he may have arrived by now. From what I’ve been told, the man named in the protection order emerged from the residence with a weapon in hand and began shooting. Armando was hit but still managed to return fire.”
“What about the other man?” Amy asked. “What happened to him?”
There was no way to sugarcoat this. “He’s deceased,” Joanna replied simply. “He was declared dead at the scene.”
“You mean Armando killed him?” Amy demanded in disbelief. “Armando shot someone, and he’s dead?”
Joanna nodded.
“Oh, my God!” Amy wailed. “My Armando a killer? He could never do such a thing! He’ll never be able to live with somebody’s death on his conscience!”
The only problem with that statement had to do with the fact that in order for Armando to have his conscience bother him, he would need to survive. That was Joanna’s immediate thought, but she said nothing to that effect.
“We understand that at the time the shooter presented a clear and present danger to any number of people. Had Armando not returned fire, other innocent people might well have perished. Your husband is an excellent officer,” Joanna added. “There’ll need to be a thorough investigation, of course, but I have no doubt it will end with his being exonerated. In the meantime, though, you shouldn’t worry about any of that. You need to get to the hospital. He’s probably already there, and you should be, too.”
“What if he dies?” Amy barely whispered her darkest fear. “How will I be able to go on if he’s not here?”
“You’ll go on because you have to,” Joanna said softly. “You’ll do it because you have kids, and that means you don’t have a choice.”
“How can you even say such a thing?” Amy demanded. “You have no right.”
“I do have a right,” Joanna countered softly, “because I’ve been there, too. My husband, Andy, was also once a deputy. He was gunned down on his way home from work.”
Amy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, no,” she said. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry. Did he make it?”
Joanna reached out, took one of Amy’s trembling hands, and held it close. “No, he didn’t,” she answered finally, “but I did, and so will you.”
Chapter 4
When Joanna returned to the school’s parking lot, she found two Interceptors parked side by side. One was a year older than hers and came with Sierra Vista markings. Frank Montoya, in full uniform, stood leaning against the front bumper of that one.
“Are you driving Amy to the hospital or am I?” he wanted to know.
“She said she wanted to drive herself.”
Frank shook his head. “That is so not happening,” he declared. “Amy’s bound to be upset, which means she’s in no condition to drive. Besides, she’ll probably need to make dozens of phone calls along the way. As for you? You need to be at the crime scene. I’ll take her, and if anyone has nerve enough to ask how come,” he added with a grin, “we’ll call it mutual aid.”
Unable to help herself, Joanna hugged the man. “Thank you,” she said. “Amy had to go back to her classroom to get her things. She turned me down flat when I offered to drive her, but maybe she’ll listen to reason if it comes from you.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Now, you get going and leave Amy Ruiz to me. By the way, who’ll be looking after her kids?”
“Her parents.”
“Good,” he said, “I know the Harpers. They’re excellent people. They’ll take good care of their grandkids, and I’ll take good care of their daughter.”
Grateful beyond words for Frank’s help and not quite trusting her ability to speak, Joanna simply nodded and climbed into her own vehicle. After dictating Leon Hogan’s address into her GPS, she drove away without bothering with either lights or sirens. And she didn’t speed either. The emergency aspect of the case was over. Amy had been notified in a timely fashion. The injured had been transported, and the dead would be carted off soon enough. For right now Sheriff Joanna Brady needed some space and some quiet.
In terms of emotions, Joanna’s conversation with Amy Ruiz had cost her dearly. For one thing, Armando was Joanna’s deputy, meaning that in a very real way he was her responsibility. Whether Armando lived or died—whether he recovered or didn’t—his wife and children were also Joanna’s responsibility. And the fact that Joanna had indeed walked in Amy’s shoes all those years earlier gave her a firsthand understanding of all the emotional pitfalls that lay in store for the entire Ruiz family.
She was headed for the highway, praying for all of them, when Butch called. “I heard about what’s going on,” he said. “Your shooting’s all over the news up here in Phoenix. Which deputy?”
“Armando Ruiz,” Joanna replied.
“What about you?” Butch asked. “Are you okay?”
“Medium,” Joanna said, “or maybe not that good. I just finished notifying his wife about the shooting. Amy was at school and had no idea anything was amiss.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s holding herself together at the moment, but I don’t know how long that will last. I doubt it’s all sunk in yet. Frank Montoya just showed up at the school to drive her to the hospital.”
“The news report said that the injured deputy had been airlifted to Tucson,” Butch said. “Is Armando going to make it?”
“Jury’s out on that,” Joanna said. “Somehow the bullet bypassed his vest. He was hit in the gut. According to Tom Hadlock, Armando’s currently undergoing emergency surgery at Banner Medical in Tucson.”
“How did it happen?”
�
��Armando was delivering a no-contact order. The guy went berserk and came out shooting. He’s dead, and there’s a good chance Armando won’t make it either.”
“This isn’t your fault, Joey,” Butch said after a pause. “You can’t hold yourself responsible.”
Joanna couldn’t help but smile when Butch called her by his pet name for her. “You know me too well,” she said, because that’s exactly what she was doing—blaming herself.
“The news said it happened out in Whetstone. Have you been to the crime scene?”
“I’m on my way now, but there probably won’t be much for me to do. My people will be sidelined, because the Department of Public Safety will be in charge of the actual investigation.”
“In my experience,” Butch observed, “you don’t do well on the sidelines. And if you don’t believe me, check out your two failed attempts at maternity leave. It might be a good idea for you to take yourself elsewhere.”
The gibe about her inability to stay off work when she was supposedly on maternity leave was well deserved.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“All right, then,” Butch said. “I’m on my way out to do both an interview and a signing. Call if you need to. If I’m busy, I’ll have my phone on airplane mode and call you back when I can.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I really did need to hear your voice.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “You know I’ve got your back.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I know you do.”
“Stay safe,” he reminded her.
“Will,” she returned. “Bye-bye.”
As Joanna turned onto Sheila Street in Whetstone twenty minutes later, she saw the cluster of official vehicles parked haphazardly along the dirt shoulder half a mile away. A few of them probably belonged to some of her people. And it made sense for them to have parked on the street rather than entering the property and disturbing the crime scene. But Joanna was equally sure that if news of the shooting was already being reported on Phoenix television stations two hundred miles away, there was most likely an active media presence here at the scene.
The moment that idea crossed her mind, she saw confirmation that she wasn’t wrong. One of the first vehicles she passed was the very recognizable white RAV4 belonging to none other than a local pain-in-the-ass columnist named Marliss Shackleford.
A Huachuca City officer, attempting to prevent unauthorized vehicles from accessing the scene, flagged Joanna down. She was stopping to display her ID when Marliss, frizzy hair and all, stepped up to the window, pushed her way past the cop, and leaned inside.
Joanna tried to give the woman the brush-off. “Excuse me, Marliss, but I’m in a hurry. Would you mind?”
Marliss, with the camera side of her iPhone pointed in Joanna’s direction, didn’t take the hint. “Is Leon Hogan the victim who’s deceased?” she asked.
Joanna knew from past experience that this annoying woman spent the better part of her day with one ear glued to her home-based police scanner. That meant that day or night she always knew exactly what was going on with Joanna’s department.
Joanna didn’t waste any time crafting a diplomatic response. “Next-of-kin notifications have not been done. That means we’re not releasing any names to the public.”
Marliss wasn’t the least bit deterred by Joanna’s terse reply. “I understand Deputy Ruiz is seriously wounded and has been airlifted to the trauma unit at Banner Medical in Tucson. Any word on his condition?”
“No comment,” Joanna said through gritted teeth. “Now, move out of the way, Marliss. I need to get going.”
Reluctantly, Marliss retracted her head, allowing Joanna to pull forward enough to be parallel with the next shoulder-parked vehicle—the M.E.’s minivan, sometimes referred to as the “body wagon.”
Looking around, Joanna saw that her stop in Sierra Vista had made for a seriously late arrival at the crime scene. Doc Baldwin and her people were huddled on the front porch of the single-wide mobile home, most likely already at work with their preliminary examination of the body, while Casey Ledford and Dave Hollicker were combing the weedy yard for shell casings, with Casey laying down evidence markers while Dave followed along, camera in hand. Dogging the CSIs’ heels was none other than County Attorney Arlee Jones.
Joanna stood still long enough to examine her surroundings. Whoever had assigned the arbitrary name of Sheila Street to that washboarded stretch of dirt road had vastly overstated the case. It wasn’t a street at all, but it was the last bit of roadway inside Whetstone proper. The collection of houses strung loosely along its eastern flank were backed by nothing but open range. No grazing cattle were visible at the moment, but barbed-wire fencing surrounded each residence and every driveway included a livestock-deterring cattle guard.
Garth Raymond’s patrol vehicle, parked just beyond the cattle guard and directly behind Armando’s, barred anyone else from entering the property. The driver’s-side door on Armando’s vehicle still hung open. Joanna, on the far side of the cattle guard, was several car lengths away. Even so, she could see the horrifying bloodstains marring the inside of the door panel, showing exactly where Deputy Ruiz had been standing at the time he was hit. All around the car, Joanna saw the telltale scatter of medical debris left behind by EMTs fighting to save Armando’s life.
Beyond Deputy Ruiz’s patrol car, Joanna spotted the body of Leon Hogan. It lay fully exposed on a small wooden porch outside the front door of the single-wide trailer. Dr. Baldwin and her henchmen were clustered nearby, doing whatever was necessary prior to transporting the body.
In search of a better vantage point, Joanna made her way across the cattle guard. One thing in particular stood out. There was not a hint of cover on that porch. In other words, the dead man must have been standing in full sight, facing Armando and firing away. From Joanna’s point of view, that added up to only one thing—suicide by cop. Leon Hogan might have been fine when it came to pulling the trigger on someone else, but he hadn’t had guts enough to take his own life.
She stood for a moment longer, surveying the sad scene. An aging GMC pickup was tucked in under a sagging carport at the near end of the mobile home, a fourteen-by-seventy. The yard around it was nothing but hard-packed dirt, littered with dead weeds and trash. Clearly no one involved was overly concerned about performing any kind of routine maintenance.
Joanna was still lost in thought when Deputy Garth Raymond hurried up to greet her.
“What’s the story?” she asked.
“As near as I can tell, most but not all of the confrontation took place right here in the front yard. Armando must have been in the process of leaving when the woman came racing out of the house with the man taking potshots at her as she ran. He missed her and hit Deputy Ruiz instead, even though Ruiz tried to take cover behind his patrol car. Chances are Hogan wasn’t even aiming at Armando.”
“Any sign of that no-contact order?” Joanna asked.
Garth nodded. “Casey Ledford told me she found it on the living-room floor, soaked in spilled coffee and next to a tipped-over end table. My guess is the coffee got spilled at the same time the table got knocked over.”
“What about the kids?” Joanna asked. “How are they?”
“Okay,” Garth said. “Evidently they heard what was going on but didn’t actually see it. They were in a bedroom where the windows are too high for them to look out. After I got here, I walked over to the neighbor’s house to check on the kids. The little girl, Kendall, told me that while she and her brother were playing in the bedroom, her parents were in the living room. She said she heard the doorbell ring. Right after that, someone closed the bedroom door. That was followed by some loud noises inside the house, but it wasn’t until after the shooting that the kids found out they were locked inside the bedroom and couldn’t get out.”
“But before that?” Joanna asked.
“Kendall told me that after the doorbell rang, at some point, she heard her
parents arguing—yelling at each other in the living room along with a ‘sort of wrestling sound.’ That’s what she called it—a wrestling sound.”
“Which would suggest some kind of physical altercation,” Joanna concluded.
“Yes,” Garth agreed, “an altercation followed by gunfire. Kendall said that when she started hearing gunshots, she made Peter hide under a bed to keep him safe.”
Hearing that made Joanna’s heart hurt. Seven-year-olds should never have to protect their younger siblings from gunfire. And considering the relative strength of the thin metal siding on the exteriors of mobile homes, hiding under the bed wouldn’t have done much good.
“Go on,” she said.
“Once the gunfire ended, the kids reported hearing someone screaming. After that they heard some sirens. Kendall said they tried to get out of the room then, but the door was locked from the outside. At that point she climbed up on a dresser and started pounding on the window until . . .” Garth paused and consulted a pocket-size notebook. “. . . until Officer Larry Dunn from Huachuca City unlocked the door and delivered them to the neighbor.”
“If she was able to pound on the window, are you sure the kids didn’t see what happened?”
“I asked Kendall about that flat out, and she said no. I’m guessing that even when she was up on the dresser, her father's body was out of sight.”
“That’s a relief,” Joanna breathed.
It would be awful if the two kids turned out to be the only eyewitnesses. Being forced to go to court and talk about seeing their father gunned down and their naked, blood-spattered mother outside howling at the sky were the kinds of things that could fuel a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.
“Did you tell them their father was dead?” Joanna asked.
Looking at his feet, Garth shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he said somberly. “I didn’t think it was my place.”
Joanna gave her young deputy an encouraging pat on his upper arm. “You’re right about that, Deputy Raymond,” she told him. “But sounds like it took Officer Dunn a while before he could get to the kids.”